. . . . Prologue . . . .

In our life there is a single color, as on an artist's palette,
which provides the meaning of life and art. It is the color of love. [Marc Chagall]

London, England, UK | May 2015

He walks in through the front door of his flat, each step heavy under his feet. Dropping his coat on the bed, he rummages in its pockets and finds what he seeks. The weight of the small box rests in his hand, its contents finely tuned and immaculately polished and ready to be placed upon Odette's finger. He cracks it open and sets it on top of his dresser, staring at it. Leaning his elbow on the dresser, his hand comes to rest against his forehead, and grants him a closer view. Such a tiny object and yet it holds so much weight. The setting large and gaudy, it smacks of old wealth and prestige. When his father took the heirloom out from the safe earlier in the week so it could be entrusted to the jeweller, he saw the satisfied glint in Mitchum's eyes.

The man knows, with this, he has won.

Logan shakes his head, defeated. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

He was supposed to be in love with his wife. That was what he had always told himself, at the least, and he had resolved to the stance more firmly after Honor and Josh had managed to marry on their own terms. Somehow, however, the last eight years have robbed him of this well-intentioned determination.

Because she said, 'no'.

He thinks of Odette and their arrangement. They built their relationship upon the need to quiet their meddling mothers, who were hell-bent on marrying off their children. They agreed to put forward the desired image of a couple until they met people they actually wanted to marry.

She knows he doesn't love her; he knows of her string of monogamous dalliances, searching for that magic someone, and he knows it is isn't him. They offer one another friendship and companionship, but never love.

And always, always lonely.

How can this truly be what comes next?

He plans to ask her tonight, when they go to dinner after her flight arrives at Heathrow. This is the natural next step – to propose, to move forward. The increase of pressure from both families has led to this decision. He knows Odette's naive and sincere hopes that they can draw out a long engagement and buy them both more time in finding other partners will only last so long.

And he knows – at least for him – that all the time in the world can't magically conjure a woman who will walk into his favorite pub one night and be everything he wants. Even the world's most beautiful women would fail to satisfy, to meet his deepest desire for a partner in life and in love and in mischief. All except one – and only one.

Because every woman pales beside her. Eight years later, he still misses her feet curled into his at night and the sight of her current reading list scattered throughout his home, on end tables and kitchen counters and stashed on the window-sill next to the bed.

He wants to call her, to yell at her – to tell her that she ruined him and that he now plans to propose to a woman he will never love – but he can't. At the sound of her voice, he knows he wouldn't be able to go through with his plans for the evening.

And for what? To stall out his life again over the one who got away?

He checks his wristwatch, taking note that the car will arrive in ten minutes. Foolishly, he sits on the bed and pulls out his phone. He opens his Instagram account, scrolling down with his finger until he finds it – that little suggestion for people he might know – and selects the one name that popped up after he regrettably made the decision to follow Paris and Doyle, and after Finn and Robert started following her account with eager abandon.

For the first time in years, he sees her face. He sets the feed so he can scroll downward through her pictures and begins to thumb through them. She looks happy in her latest post, flanked by her mother and Luke at some town festival. He spies Taylor frowning at something in the background and a chuckle escapes him at the thought. A series of posts span seven or eight days, revealing a whirlwind trek through the American West for what he gleans from the captions to be an article on the future of the nation's water supply. A smiling Lane with her twin boys makes him feel his age, and a twinge of oft-avoided desire to have his own family surprises him. Of course there's a quintessential image of a cup of coffee at Luke's; a stack of books on the tray of an airplane seat; a well-organized to-do list.

It all reflects her natural light and humor and Weltanschauung – a combination he has long known to be virtually inescapable. In a moment – in one glimpse at those sparkling eyes in their peculiar shade of sky – memories long-buried begin to surface. Memories long before she said no, when they were happy and in love and factoring one another into major decisions.

And then there's a selfie of her and some guy kissing on New Year's Eve. Some guy named Paul.

He stops suddenly, determinedly shoving the memories back into what he hopes will continue to be unaccessed corners of his mind. Realizing the full idiocy of his decision to "check in" on her online, he exits out of her feed. If she's happy, then he will let her be happy. And, in the meantime, he resolves to set aside his doubts as to the probability and determines to find someone who makes him happy – even if it can't be her. He will try his damnedest to join Odette in her quest to find that magic, elusive someone.

Standing up, he grabs the ring box and snaps it closed, placing it carefully in his jacket pocket. He steadies himself against the dresser, waiting for his heart to cease its frantic pace within his chest. In, then out, he breathes.

He straightens, retrieves his coat from the bed and, then, he shuffles down the steps and walks out his front door.

Story image from photograph by Glyn Lowe Photoworks, Creative Commons 2.0